


Color Me Rare

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Last Drabble Writer Standing, M/M, rare pairs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29091198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: A collection of Rare Pair drabbles written for Last Drabble Writer Standing - Round 3. The theme for Round 3 was Colors.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Ron Weasley, Daphne Greengrass/Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger/Charlie Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Percy Weasley, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Comments: 24
Kudos: 31





	1. Rush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warm Up Couple: Charlie Weasley / Hermione Granger  
> Color: Red / Passion  
> Word Limit: 250  
> Result: 2nd Place

**Rush**

They had been ascending for hours.

Charlie had warned her that it’d be a trek to the nesting grounds, but Hermione had insisted. She had faced far worse than a serpentine path up the Carpathian Mountains.

Or so she’d thought.

“Break,” she gasped, cheeks red from exertion and embarrassment.

Charlie smiled in that easy way he had, blue eyes sparkling. “Altitude’s killer, isn’t it?”

Hermione nodded, hand on her hips, breath coming in sharp pants.

“You’ll get used to it. After a couple months at camp, you’ll be running these trails.”

It seemed impossible. But then, so had Romania.

It was a goal she’d worked toward, but never thought she’d actually achieve. A year of field work and research. A year on a dragon preserve.

A year with Charlie.

Another impossibility, especially after her disastrous relationship with Ron. But Charlie was different. He saw her not as his little brother’s ex-girlfriend, but as a woman in her own right. As a professional with something to offer. Something to add.

It didn’t hurt, either, that heat followed his gaze. Hermione warmed like an oxygenated ember whenever their eyes met, and she wondered if a man so familiar with fire understood what his trailing fingers and gentle words could spark within her.

Or perhaps that was the point. Working with dragons required recklessness—a headlong sprint toward teeth and tails despite the threat of injury. Normally, she’d be afraid of the hurt. But this risk, this rush?

This felt like one worth taking.


	2. The Match

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Week 1 Couple: Harry Potter / Theodore Nott  
> Color: Blue / Calm  
> Word Limit: 400  
> Result: 4th Place

**The Match**

Their eyes met across the pitch.

A slow irritation settled onto Harry’s shoulders as Theo lounged on his broom, relaxed to near indolence during the opening ceremony’s pomp. It bothered him, the cool confidence with which the opposing Seeker sat his broom. Living under the public’s eye wasn’t new, but Harry still didn’t relish it. He envied Theo’s poise.

And Theo knew it. Even beneath the apertures of countless cameras, he smirked and licked his lips, blatantly suggestive. Indifferent to whatever speculation the _Prophet_ might print.

Nevertheless, Harry’s irritation turned to intrigue. Heat crawled up his neck and suffused his cheeks. Judging from how he leaned forward on his broom, Theo had noticed.

A game within a game: professional rivals, public acquaintances, private lovers.

Harry flinched at the shrill whistle and flew to meet Theo at the pitch’s center. Even through the gloves, Harry’s hands felt clammy. Theo either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He tugged Harry a fraction closer.

“Ready for me, Potter?”

He’d been asking himself that question for weeks. Their tryst had started months ago. An evening of heavy drinking celebrating the marriage of Draco and Hermione. A hot press of lips and skin in one of the manor’s abandoned rooms. A fulfillment unlike anything Harry had ever known.

With Theo’s fingers wrapped firmly around his own, Harry thought he knew the answer. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time for nuanced conversation. He defaulted to blunt honesty:

“Yes.”

Theo’s expression flickered; a flush crawled into _his_ cheeks for a change. They parted and flew to their starting positions. After another whistle, the match began.

Several hours later, Harry and Theo flew abreast, their scouting patterns finding temporary parity.

Theo shouted over the wind. “Did you mean it?”

No need for clarification. And though Harry had already given his answer, repetition formed reality. “I am.”

Unfettered joy lit Theo’s face, and Harry felt it take flight in his own chest. He threw his head back and laughed, weightless as the late afternoon clouds winked gold with hope.

And with something else.

He turned back to Theo, face split in a wide grin. “But just because I love you doesn’t mean I’ll let you win.”

He pulled up sharply, rocketing skyward as Theo trailed laughter behind him.

And together, they flew like twin raptors, caught in a tight spiral as they ascended into the clear blue sky and captured their future.


	3. The Eighth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Week 1 Couple: Blaise Zabini / Ginny Weasley  
> Color: Green / Jealousy  
> Word Limit: 450  
> Result: 3rd Place

**The Eighth**

Blaise is a dark arrow skimming over white floors. He flies through a forest of green, cutting through pine boughs, olive groves, and shamrock fields until, at last, a small, lime pillar refuses to fall.

_Granger_.

Her hand presses against his chest. Blaise admires her nerve, but she won’t stop him.

Nothing will.

“Blaise, Ginny’s alive.”

He tries to push Granger aside, but the Healer has set her feet, becoming the immovable object Draco whinges about with equal parts frustration and admiration.

“Wait, listen to me. She’s weak, dehydrated. We don’t know the cause, and the Aurors still need to—”

“ _Move_.”

“You can’t—”

His hand snaps to her wrist; her brown eyes narrow in pain.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” But he will if she makes him.

Granger measures his resolve against her own, then nods. Blaise unhands her wrist. She presses her wand to the door’s access panel; it swings open.

“I won’t be able to stall the Aurors for long,” she says, looking up at him. “Be quick and don’t upset her.”

Blaise isn’t a Healer. He doesn’t understand the equipment that surrounds Ginny’s bed, the monitors that hum and ping with periodic frequency. A fluid bag hangs suspended above her. He follows the transparent line to her arm, where it hooks into a vein, dark blue against her milk-pale skin.

His stomach turns—he’s not built for this—and then Ginny’s head lolls toward him. Her eyes open a crack.

“Blaise?”

He settles into a bedside chair and takes her hand. “I’m here,” he says, forcing a smile.

“How’d you get past Hermione?”

“Charm.” His heart’s not in it, but Ginny’s wheezing laugh gives him hope. “I don’t have long.” He leans forward. “What happened?”

“Owl post arrived.”

He sighs and squeezes her fingers. “Ginny… We’ve been over this.”

“It was addressed to me.”

“Was there a return address?”

Tears well in her eyes, electric blue under the hospital’s sun-bright lights. “I shouldn’t be afraid to open my mail,” she says. “I shouldn’t be afraid to mount my broom, or use the Floo, or visit Diagon Alley alone. Blaise, I can’t…”

He wipes her tears with gentle fingers. He knows it’s over. Their chronic argument has been decided—finally, permanently—in Ginny’s favor.

“You were right,” he says. “I just couldn’t see it.”

“She’ll always come between us,” Ginny says with a quiet sob. “We can never be together, not until she’s gone. Blaise, your mother…”

Lucrezia Zabini: seven times a widow, seven times a poisoner.

Eight, now.

“I know,” Blaise says. “I’ll take care of it.”

Ginny’s eyes close, her pale lips set in a thin, grim line. “I know you will.”

After all, Blaise is his mother’s son.


	4. Played

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Week 3 Couple: Percy Weasley / Pansy Parkinson  
> Color: Grey / Complexity  
> Word Limit: 500  
> Result: Admin's Choice

**Played**

Percy’s four o’clock stands just outside his office door. She’s a slight woman made taller by shiny, three-inch heels. She wears a fitted black skirt and a white blouse that threatens to pop a button if she breathes too deeply. He considers himself a professional—a man not so easily undone by the sudden appearance of a pretty face—but hers leaves him dumbstruck.

Silence stretches. Her dark brow arches toward her blunt-cut fringe, triggering a sense memory: a young girl with an upturned nose and a Slytherin robe who’d given him cheek when he’d given her detention.

 _Pansy_. As a child, nothing like the flower that shares her name. As a woman, a force who should clearly not be underestimated.

Percy pops to his feet. “It’s lovely to see you again.” She takes his hand, the lie earning him a tight smile. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve recently inventoried my family’s vault and identified several items that may be of interest to your museum. But before I agree to an exhibition, I want to ensure that your collection is appropriately secured.”

It’s a strange request. Most donors accept the museum’s security protocols without question. And the Ashmolean’s _Arcanos_ collection hasn’t been robbed in five centuries, further proof of the program’s robustness.

But Director Ainsley has made his expectations clear. The collection is in dire need of donors, requiring new acquisitions to reignite its flagging attendance. Percy’s role as curator is to secure these new acquisitions by any means necessary.

Even if it means agreeing to borderline unreasonable terms.

He hides his discomfort behind an agreeable smile and an open gesture. “My pleasure. This way, please.”

They walk to the main gallery, and Percy outlines the museum’s complex web of anti-Muggle, anti-intrusion, and anti-theft wards. He explains the triple-locked windows, the threshold alarms, the magical dampeners, and the bespoke sticking charms. Pansy nods and probes for detail, wanting the specifics.

On their way back to his office, she stops at a small glass case. It contains a silver ring, its band hammered smooth and etched with delicate Brythonic characters. In its center sits a large moonstone: grey, uncut, and pulsing with power.

“The Ring of Dispel,” he explains. “Gifted to Sir Lancelot by the Lake of the Lake. It’s able to break any enchantment.”

“I know,” she says. “My family is descended from Nimuë.”

Percy blinks his surprise. “I had no idea.”

“We thought it was lost.” Pansy smiles at the ring, then up at him. Her dark eyes shine. “I suppose it’s not.”

A shiver crawls down Percy’s spine; he ignores it. Premonition is not a talent the Weasleys possess. His sudden dread signifies nothing more than surprise at the coincidental connection.

The tour ends, Pansy leaves, and, though nothing is signed, Percy feels both optimistic and a touch smitten.

It isn’t until the following morning, when he arrives to find the museum’s wards disabled and the moonstone ring missing, that Percy realizes just how thoroughly he’d been played.


	5. A New Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Week 4 Couple: Harry Potter / Daphne Greengrass  
> Color: Orange / Creativity  
> Word Limit: 100  
> Result: N/A, did not place

**A New Truth**

Harry had agreed to attend the gallery opening as a favor. Though his scars discouraged lying, acknowledging the truth hurt more: tonight was his first foray from grief’s grey shores.

The art was shite, cold and abstract.

But the music?

Intended for ambience and failing with every note, its rise and fall synchronized with that of his lungs.

A curvy woman occupied the piano bench, a red-orange remembrance poppy pinned above her heart. She smiled, polite and poised beneath his befuddlement.

_Daphne_.

She invited him for drinks; he agreed.

And after years of mourning, Harry acknowledged a new truth: _hope_.


	6. The Seeker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Week 5 Couple: Luna Lovegood / GInny Weasley  
> Color: Yellow / Playful  
> Word Limit: 500  
> Result: Admin's Choice

**The Seeker**

“Your wife is missing.” Harry dropped a note onto Ginny’s desk and began to pace. “We’re assembling a team. When did you last see her?”

Ginny pulled the note forward, skimmed it, and smiled. “Harry.”

“We don’t have long. The first twenty-four hours are—”

“ _Harry_.” Ginny took him by the shoulders. “Luna’s not missing.”

He blinked. “She’s not?”

“No. But cover for me, will you? I’m skiving off today.”

“Where are you going?”

She looked at the four handwritten lines, unpunctuated and utterly nonsensical. “I’m not sure.”

But she knew how to find out.

* * *

_Shugborough’s Secrets_ lay flat on their kitchen table, the book opened to a dog-eared page that had been annotated into illegibility.

Luna’s obsession had started a week after Xenophilius’ death. She became convinced that her father had broken the mysterious Shugborough inscription, discovered the location of the Holy Grail, and posthumously published the book as a red herring for other seekers.

But a hoax for others meant a game for Luna, a final bequest from her beloved father. She’d set her grief aside and thrown herself into the puzzle, sifting through breadcrumbs and following false trails, categorizing cryptic clues that only someone who’d known Xenophilius’ mind could intuit.

For nearly one year, Luna’s diligence had yielded nothing.

But today, lined up precisely with ancient inscription, was the cipher’s key.

_She’d solved it._

Ginny’s heart raced as she decoded her own note, her brow furrowing as she re-read it. There was a cadence to the message, a rhythm reminiscent of Luna’s homemade charms. On a hunch, she drew her wand and spoke them aloud.

“Clay hill, stone tower, Arthur’s rest, golden flower.”

A yellow calla lily appeared beside her. Ginny smiled, took the flower, and braced under the Portkey’s familiar tug.

She landed in a sparse wood at the bottom of an oblong, terraced hill topped with a stone tower. Ginny’s breath caught. She knew this place: Glastonbury Tor in Somerset, believed by some to be Avalon—the final resting place of both King Arthur and the Holy Grail.

Luna waited for her in the sunshine at the hill’s zenith. Ginny slipped an arm around her waist. For a few minutes, they simply stood, comfortable in the quiet.

“Did you find it?” Ginny asked.

“There’s a theory amongst veteran seekers,” Luna said after a moment’s thought. “They start to wonder if the Holy Grail ever existed at all. If their search wasn’t for an ancient cup, but for something lost inside themselves.”

“What do you believe?”

Luna smiled. “My father taught me there’s rarely just _one_ answer.” Tears welled in her eyes. “He sought the _truth_. About the Grail, about himself, about…” She looked at the tourists milling around them, then up at the tower. “About _everything_. In the end, I think he found it.”

“And what about you, Luna? What do you seek?”

“The Grail,” she answered. “And closure.”

“Have you found them?”

“Yes.” Luna rested her head on Ginny’s shoulder. “I think I’ve found both.”


	7. White Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Week 6 Couple: Ron Weasley / Astoria Greengrass  
> Color: White / Status  
> Word Limit: 500  
> Result: N/A, did not place

**White Knight**

Auror Team Seven crouched low amongst the wildflowers, approaching the cottage from the west in Ministry-standard wedge formation. Tactically, it was a good option: the building’s west side had fewest windows, and the setting sun at their backs meant the target would be blind to their approach.

Though it wasn’t their _best_ option. Ideally, the op would be run at night, under cover of darkness and while the target was asleep. Only…

They weren’t sure Astoria would live that long.

“Ron. Status report.” Harry’s voice sounded through the Extendable Earpiece.

“All clear, no movement.” Ron raised a clenched fist, halting his team. “How do thermals look?”

“No traces,” Harry confirmed. “Bombarda is a go.”

The stone wall exploded. The debris flew north and south in a controlled scatter, and Ron’s team rushed into the void.

A jet of green light nearly pierced him, sizzling over his left shoulder and singeing his dragon-hide armour. Ron fought the adrenaline spike and took cover behind a bookshelf.

“Single hostile,” he said on a measured exhale. “East corridor.”

“Engaging.” Two of his unit broke off, heading toward the assailant.

“You okay?” Harry again. He sounded worried.

Ron willed steel into his spine. “Never better. En route to the objective.” He pulled himself from cover and crept deeper into the house.

He stopped in the kitchen, caught by the pungent stench of human waste. The cellar door had been bolted, padlocked, and jinxed. After a series of charms that would’ve made Hermione proud, the door eased open.

The stairs creaked beneath his weight, and the smell of captive humanity grew with each step. Ron paused at the bottom landing, wand raised.

“Astoria?”

A pale figure lurched from the darkness. Ron didn’t see the wooden plank until it was inches from his head. He flinched backwards, but the board clipped his temple, landing him hard upon the stairs and sparking flashbulbs behind his eyes.

Astoria bellowed, her primal will to survive encapsulated in one, magnificent sound. Even dazed, the cry sent chills up his spine.

“Wait.” Little more than a groan, spoken behind raised hands that would do nothing against her weapon. “I’m an Auror. Ron Weasley. I’m here to save—”

Astoria stood over him, lips curled into a snarl, chest heaving. “I don’t need a white knight. I was getting out of here on my own.”

“Reckon you were,” he said. He made to stand when a voice spoke in his ear. He relayed the update. “Lestrange is in custody. It’s over.”

She breathed an incredulous laugh, and Ron felt the truth of it.

It wasn’t over. Not until she could face the darkness alone and without terror.

“You’ll be okay,” he corrected.

“How do you know?” Half dismissive, half sincere.

“Because I’ve been there. You’re not alone.”

Astoria lifted her trembling chin. “You promise?”

“I do.”

She helped him stand, and Ron felt her trust fall heavy across his shoulders. And he stood tall beneath its weight, certain he was worthy of it.


End file.
